Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle

by Blechta, Rick

  The one thing I remained constant on, though, was that I had to talk to Lainey. She was my good friend, she was hurting, and even if I wasn’t to blame, I had started the ball rolling by asking her to take that drive with me to Verdun.

  Finally, at 10:15 that morning, someone lifted the receiver when I again rang her apartment.

  “Lainey?” I asked almost in a whisper. “Is that you?”

  The silence stretched more than ten seconds before she answered. “Yes.”

  I couldn’t read anything from the inflection in her voice. Was she angry or resigned? I couldn’t tell.

  All the things I’d carefully rehearsed during the darkness of the night scattered before that one word my friend had uttered.

  “Would saying I’m sorry beyond imagining count for anything?”

  “It would be a start,” she answered dully.

  I got off the sofa and walked to my window. Outside, the sky was leaden, low, and the light diffuse and depressing. A mixture of brown leaves and litter swirled along the sidewalks and street below. Monday pedestrian traffic hurried along. As if to explain, a few large flakes of snow appeared, alternately drifting down and being whisked away by the frequent gusts of wind.

  “Is this a good time to talk?” I finally asked.

  “I have nothing else to do.”

  “You’ve told the school?”

  “I didn’t have to. It’s all over the news here. The dean sent me an email saying to take as much time as I needed. He’d met Sébastien a few weeks ago at a concert and Sébastien had given me one of his books for him. I never got around to passing it on.” She sighed. “What do you want to talk about?”

  It overflowed out of me in a rush. “Who came to get Sébastien two nights ago? Is there any word on who they were?”

  Lainey began talking, her voice zombie-like. “There were two of them. One of them showed Sébastien his I.D. I’m certain of that. The Montreal police have taken me through this so many times, I can scroll it in my head like a frigging movie.

  “Everything was so jolly. The two men joshed with Sébastien, saying that he’d been through this sort of thing before, they were only the errand boys, blah, blah, blah. I was certainly freaked, but he just gave me a kiss on the forehead and told me not to wait up. I was ... I was ... asleep when it happened. When the alarm went off at seven the next morning, that’s when I found out on Radio-Canada what had happened.” Lainey began to cry. “Now I know what you must have felt like.”

  “Christ! What can I say, Lainey? Even though I only met him briefly, I could tell that Sébastien was a truly nice, generous guy. I am so sorry.”

  “When the cops asked me in for questioning, they made me feel that I’d done something wrong. It was horrible. I did finally get them to tell me that they have no idea who the two men were.”

  “How about his friend in Vancouver?”

  “They said they wouldn’t talk to me about him at all.”

  “I’m sure they asked you if Sébastien said anything to you about, you know, what he was trying to find out for me.”

  “Over and over again. They also searched his apartment. I went over there yesterday to pick up some things and they wouldn’t even let me in. When I said I needed my laptop for work, they told me, “‘Tant pis.’”

  I had my fingers crossed. “So what did you tell them when they questioned you?”

  “I want them to find the bastards who did this. I had to tell them everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “What else could I do? Are you worried about being dragged into this?”

  There was an edge to her voice that I didn’t like, but I could understand where it came from. “No. Of course not. Did you tell them about me seeing my husband in Paris?”

  “I’m not sure. I may have. Why?”

  “I spent most of the night thinking this over. What would have caused somebody to take the drastic step of murdering two journalists? And it happened pretty quickly. Surely they knew there would be a huge uproar.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Sébastien left me a phone message that said there was a lot more to this than I knew. He was in your office when he made the call. Did he say anything to you?”

  “He called you? When?”

  “The day before yesterday.

  “He was alone in my office waiting for me. I was in a meeting that ran really late. I had no idea he even called you until just now. Why didn’t you mention it when I spoke to you?”

  “I just thought you knew.”

  “Listen, Marta, my mom and dad are due over here any moment to sit with me. And if I know my mom, she’ll be bringing dinner. I’ve got to run. This place is a pigsty.”

  “I’m sure your mother won’t mind.”

  “You don’t know my mother. Even in the middle of a family crisis, rest assured, you could eat off her floors.”

  “Can we talk again soon?” I asked.

  “Not tonight. A friend down the hall gave me some sleeping pills. I’m going to kick my parents out early and try to get some sleep.”

  “That sounds like the right idea. I may try the same.”

  “The cops are going to come and talk to you, Marta. I’d suggest you level with them. Even tell them about Paris. You don’t want to mess around with something like this, and I know how you can be when you get your back up. You owe your husband nothing. He lied to you and now two people have died.”

  “Maybe three,” I corrected with a sinking feeling, as I thought of the small amount of someone who had been found at the farm after the fire.

  Even though it was Sunday, the cops were at my door before noon. It was a scene right out of Dragnet.

  There were two of them, white, both over six feet, both with brush cuts, neither with moustaches like the Mountie in Montreal, one older than the other, and neither with a sense of humour.

  “Marta Hendriks?” the one on the right asked when I opened the door.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re from the RCMP,” the second one said, expertly flipping open his ID “May we come in?”

  The other also took out his ID I took them both and studied them carefully.

  “How do I know you are what you say you are?”

  “That’s why we’ve shown you our IDs, ma’am,” the first one, identified as Patrick Glover on his ID card, answered.

  “Obviously. Do you have a number I could phone to verify this visit?”

  I suppose real bad guys at this point could have just forced their way in, overpowered me in two seconds flat, then rolled me up in one of my carpets for a quick one-way trip to who knows where.

  They were quite patient as I took their IDs, shut (and bolted) the door, and phoned the number they’d given me.

  “RCMP,” a crisp female voice answered. “How may I direct your call?”

  Well, that was nice. Even with all the government cutbacks they had live people working the phones on a Sunday.

  “This may sound odd, but I have two constables at my door whose IDs say they’re from the RCMP. How can I verify that?”

  “If you give me their names, I can check it for you, ma’am.”

  I read off the names and she was gone for about a minute. “Yes, both those constables are assigned to Toronto and they’re out of the office at the moment. Would you like their badge numbers?”

  “Yes. Certainly.”

  Everything checked out, but I wasn’t taking any chances. “I was just wondering. What’s your address in Toronto?”

  “Constables Glover and Griffin work out of our office near the airport, 255 Atwell Drive.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said as I madly began thumbing through the phone book to check. I was learning that it never hurts to be too careful.

  Glover and Griffin were waiting at my door just as I’d left them. I handed them back their IDs and invited them in.

  Fortunately, the cleaning lady had been through two days earlier so the place l
ooked presentable.

  The GG twins sat down stiffly on the sofa, and I plunked myself onto the upholstered chair by the window, the light streaming in behind me. Both took out notebooks, but only Glover wrote anything down. Griffin, the older one, seemed to be in charge and referred to copious notes in his book from time to time. Both declined the offer of coffee or tea. Good thing. Everything I had was stale, and I hadn’t gotten around to picking up anything fresh. It was too easy to just run across the street to Second Cup when I wanted a brew.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t let you in just now,” I began and immediately regretted babbling. Who cared what they thought?

  Griffin looked at me. “We did wonder, ma’am.”

  Too late now. I had to answer. “That journalist murdered in Montreal, he was escorted from his apartment by two men posing as cops.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Come on, constable. You two didn’t just wander up here to pass the time of day. I’ve already been interviewed in Montreal by one of your comrades.”

  “His name?”

  “You don’t have it in your notes?”

  “His name?” Griffin repeated a bit more firmly.

  “Inspector Parker, I believe, Ron Parker. Do you know him?”

  Both Mounties just stared. If they were trying to unnerve me, they were doing a damn fine job of it.

  Glover finally smiled. Perhaps the good cop of the duo? “Ms. Hendriks, we’re just trying to gather some information for this case. I understand you knew Sébastien Bouchard. Wouldn’t you like to help catch his killer?”

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “I have no experience with the police outside of parking tickets. But I do know one thing, why are you here, Mounties and all? Shouldn’t the Montreal police have asked the Toronto police to help them? Am I missing something?”

  They looked at each other, then Griffin said, “Will you excuse us for a moment?” and they retreated to my foyer where they spoke in low voices for a couple of minutes.

  Coming back, Glover again took the lead. “Did Inspector Parker tell you why we are still interested in your dead husband?”

  “Not really.”

  Griffin thumbed a few pages of his notebook. “And your husband never told you anything about his past?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Everything I’ve found out has come as a profound shock to me.”

  “What did Parker tell you about your husband’s work for us?”

  “Not much. He didn’t really go into specifics, but I know he was supplying information on bikers.”

  Griffin stared at me with those bug eyes that sent shivers down my spine. “It would have been dangerous, ma’am. You see, when your husband disappeared, he was in our witness protection program, but he was due to testify in court with two other men. Their testimony would have put away some of the most notorious bikers in Quebec.”

  “You said ‘would have.’ I take it they didn’t testify.”

  “No, ma’am. Two of the witnesses were murdered and your husband disappeared.”

  “And you think he may have murdered the two witnesses? I find that hard to believe.”

  Glover shook his head. “No. He fled after the other two were killed. But because of that, the crown’s case fell apart. The key accused all walked. We only sent away a few of the smaller players.”

  My mind was racing at that point. There were so many possibilities here. “So they eventually found my husband and killed him, too. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s the way most of us read it.”

  “I’m obviously not getting something here. If these bikers killed the three key witnesses, why go after two journalists two years after the fact? Or are you going to say you can’t tell me anything about that?”

  Griffin ignored my question. “We know you spoke to Sébastien Bouchard. What was that conversation about?”

  “A very good friend of mine was seeing him. It was she who suggested I speak to him since Sébastien knows ... knew all about bikers. I asked him if he’d ever heard of my husband.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “My husband was in one of his old databases but past that, he knew nothing. He told me that another reporter, a friend of his in Vancouver, might know more about it, and that he’d check with him and get back to me if he got any further information.”

  “Did he say why this friend in Vancouver might have information?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “And did you hear from Mr. Bouchard any further on this matter?”

  “Yes. He called me on Friday, but I wasn’t at home.”

  “Did he leave a message?”

  “Yes. He said that his colleague in Vancouver had told him there was more to this story than we suspected. He said he’d call back and not to speak to anyone about this.” A shiver went down my spine, knowing that poor Sébastien had been only a few hours from his death. “He never called back.”

  “Are you sure that’s all the message said?”

  “Absolutely.”

  It was smiling Glover’s turn again. “Is there anything else you think we should know?”

  “No. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Griffin snapped his notebook shut decisively. “Thank you for your time, Ms Hendriks.”

  Thoroughly incensed, I leapt to my feet. “You ignored my comment about the fact that it should have been Toronto cops here today, not Mounties. You’ve said information Inspector Parker might have given me could be dangerous. Now someone I spoke to about my husband has been murdered, and you’re just going to leave after thanking me for my time? I want to know what the hell’s going on!”

  Glover got up. At least he had the grace to appear a bit embarrassed. He looked searchingly at his partner who eventually nodded, but not happily.

  “This is an internal RCMP matter, but what’s being investigated by us is how the bikers were able to get to our three witnesses. Our suspicion is that the reporter in Vancouver dug up some information on it, if he didn’t have it already. He passed it on to his friend in Montreal. Someone thought it was dangerous enough to take them out.”

  I didn’t see what he was getting at and it must have shown on my face. “May I ask you one more thing?”

  Griffin looked at me noncommittally.

  “You said the unit you’re working with thinks my husband was also murdered to keep him from testifying. If that’s the case, then why did Inspector Parker ask me if I’d heard from my husband recently?”

  “The unit believes your husband is dead. Parker doesn’t. He’s a man who operates on hunches, and this is one of them. Please do not pass on to anyone what we have told you today, or you’ll be sorry.”

  With that, Griffin went out the door and Glover hurried to follow.

  Fortunately, he shut the door behind him. I had zoned out to never never land with that last bit of information and didn’t even notice.

  Chapter Eleven

  I spent the rest of that Sunday deep in thought. By mid-afternoon, it began feeling as if the walls were closing in on me, so the weather being fair, if a little bit chilly, I took the subway up to Davisville. I wanted to walk along the Belt Line, my favourite place in Toronto for a contemplative stroll.

  An old rail bypass whose days were numbered even as it was being built, the Belt Line trail feels to me like a walk in the country, even though it’s pretty well never more than ten meters from someone’s backyard. There’s a section of “forest” at the eastern end by Yonge Street, followed by “meadows” along Chaplin Crescent, then you’re into a bit of “savanna” until you reach the end, just past Caledonia Road, whereupon you turn around and do the whole thing in reverse. With the last of the fall leaves swirling around me, it was a splendid place to walk that brisk day, even if I had to pay more attention to dodging the weekend runners and bicyclists than I would have preferred.

  I must admit that a large part of me was very resentful of the whole situat
ion. When I’d gotten on the plane for Paris on the third of September, I had believed that my recent past was finally just that: in the past. I was looking forward to working again and felt full of confidence and energy. Then that past rose up out of the Paris streets and bit me firmly on the bum.

  I’ve never been one of those people who can easily let things go. I don’t like people taking advantage of me nor being made a fool of.

  My feelings toward my husband seemed to switch from hour to hour. While I deeply resented him not telling me about his past, I could at least understand why he’d done it. He even appeared to be a bit of a hero in my eyes. Biker gangs are horrible organizations that spread ruin, whether by drugs, prostitution, or the protection racket. Jean-Claude had certainly done something admirable when he’d helped the police, and it had not been his fault that everything had fallen apart, forcing him to flee for his life. It was only logical that he’d left me in the dark. But had he really thought so little of my strength, my resolve, my love? I would gladly have shared any danger and done everything in my power to help him.

  The thing I faced that I couldn’t get around or over, no matter how hard I thought about it, was what had happened in Paris. Had I actually seen the man who’d been wrenched from my life so painfully? Was it a figment of my obviously still-damaged psyche? That was the question that burned in my mind.

  But the real point was could I avoid searching for the answers? Could I turn and just walk away?

  I didn’t get back to the condo until late afternoon, and I was famished. Since getting back into town, I had survived on takeout and a couple of frozen meals. It’s hard to make anything edible when your fridge only contains mayonnaise, ketchup, jam, hot sauce, and six eggs that likely would have killed me, so I hiked downstairs to the big supermarket at ground level for some major shopping with an eye mostly toward long-term storage. Filling the freezer was a priority for someone in my line of business.